


A Habit

by BlueHareGame



Series: Unfinished works [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dream Sequences, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, M/M, OOC Sherlock, Sherlocks POV, crossposted, reposted, set after series 1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:53:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1371301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueHareGame/pseuds/BlueHareGame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has an unfortunate habit for getting kidnapped. SLASH.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hospital Beds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OctopusMaps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctopusMaps/gifts).



> Hi, this is a repost of a much older fic of mine from FF.net. I hope it still holds up!

He was bored, bored, bored, and John wasn't here and he was so _bored_. In fact now he looked at the clock with the smashed face that still lay in a crumpled heap by the fireplace John had been gone since yesterday morning and it was... just past midnight. Sherlock frowned and checked his phone, still no reply. So he was ignoring Sherlock's texts, _fine_ it had only been a spat, nothing of consequence ...or had it, had he said something that had really hurt John? It didn't seem possible. The man was strong, confident; he couldn't be hurt by silly little words.

The detective shook his head and picked up his phone to call his colleague, groaning when he noticed not one feeble bar of signal. He threw the expensive piece of kit across the room hearing a sharp crack and then a soft thump as it hit the wall and landed on the couch. He hooked his legs over the arm of John's chair and ran a hand down its back watching the trails of his fingers as they dragged the delicate fabric down.

"Mrs. Hudson!" she appeared almost instantly frowning and tutting and picking things up around him.

"What is it Sherlock? John's been out an awfully long time."

Sherlock glared at the fussing woman. "I noticed. I need to use your phone."

"You will have to use the landline dear; I can't understand those new portable phones. They make them so over complicated."

Sherlock moaned and swung himself to his feet stamping away like a petulant child. He rang John's phone, the number learnt by heart. (Just in case he was stuck without his mobile of course) After a tense couple of seconds the call picked up.

"Hello?" it was a woman's voice...a woman. A woman had answered John's phone, of course. He must've run to Sarah. Sherlock growled under his breath and clutched the phone tightly.

"Sarah. Can you put John on the phone?"

He was trying his best polite voice and she had the nerve to cackle. Sherlock squinted at Mrs. Hudson's wallpaper. "Oh this isn't Sarah. You might want to talk to him though."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, of course, that was exactly what he wanted idiot. There was a moment where the mobile was passed over and then John's sluggish, sleepy voice rang out and the detective sighed. He sounded drowsy, he must've woken them.

"John. Where are you?"

"Sh-Sherlock?" There was a soft moan then the call was hung up leaving the detective holding the earpiece away from his face and staring at it in disbelief. He didn't want to think about what could be happening on the other side of the phone, with his John. And there it was,  _his_ John nobody else's. He had managed through some extraordinary stroke of luck to procure a friend and he wasn't letting him go.

So he went to bed and he slept (kind of) and he woke up to an empty flat his face bunching up more and more as he looked around and texted again but found no replies. Well not from John at least, Lestrade had sent him a simple text about a lead on his latest case.

Twelve men injected with some sort of poison and tied in their underwear to the bed.

He had told the DI that he was busy with other things, he wasn't Lestrades nanny but that didn't stop him from sending updates trying to bait the detective into being interested. He had more pressing matters to attend after all, he text back anyway, it gave him an excuse to pick John up from where ever he was, to see him again.

Lestrade didn't text back right away and so he called his colleagues mobile and the woman picked up again. "Hellloooo?"

"What is your address? I need to pick up John."

"You already have it honey."

She hung up again and Sherlock snarled at the phone, what did she mean! He span around eyes trailing over and over their collective junk (well it was mostly Sherlock's) until his gaze landed on a strip of paper, Johns familiar scrawl on the corner and it all came back to him. He had been writing something down when Sherlock had come home and then Sherlock asked for a cup of tea and the doctor flew off the handle. Or at least that's how he remembered it. Striding over he yanked the paper from under a small pile of books and clasped it tight in his hand rushing out of the door and down the street to hail a cab.

He stared out of the window counting off streets names as they passed them, hands jiggling on his legs. He was angry, angry at John for staying away so long, angry at John for choosing some woman over him. What about Sarah? He didn't seem like the type to cheat but then...he hadn't seen her around much lately either. It was true that when she was there he went out of his way to ignore her but then what are you supposed to do when the only person you've ever had anything more than contempt for starts going out with some woman from work. What's wrong with a detective at home?

It is more geographically sound.

He was pulled from his reverie by the rough voice of his cabbie. "Sorry mate. Can't go any further." Sherlock looked up to see police tape everywhere and he sucked in a breath leaping from the backseat and throwing a twenty at his driver.

He pushed his way past the barrier and found Lestrade looking tense in a bullet proof vest. "Sherlock, what are you doing here? I didn't even send you the address."

"No need. John found it two days ago."

"Two days...when exactly were you going to tell me that?"

"What's the situation?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes; he was used to being ignored. "Turns out eight of the twelve victims visited a brothel three days before they disappeared and when our guys looked over things again we realised they were missing for three days  _exactly_ before their bodies were found. Asked around and found out that only one person turned up missing from work at the times the men went missing. This is her address."

Sherlock froze.

The killer lived here, not a date. John sounded drowsy...drugged. She had him drugged somewhere in that building. He turned sharply blinking confused as Lestrade had carried on his spiel.

"So she is holding a hostage at gunpoint."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive, she shot Sergeant Phillips in the arm."

Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets, how inconvenient of them to shake at a time like this. He glanced at the house a simple three story townhouse, completely plain, boring and unremarkable. He glared at the plain red door, teeth grinding together.

Lestrade touched him on the arm and he realised the inspector had been calling his name. "What is it?"

"Johns in there..."

Then he couldn't hold back any longer, his heart hammering in his chest. Lestrade's eyes grew comically wide and Sherlock pushed past him, running up to the door ignoring the calls of the swat teams as he banged heavily on the peeling wood, the doorframe rattling with the force.

"It's me, Sherlock Holmes. Let me in."

There was a few seconds of silence and he thumped his hand back down. "I know you're in there."

"You wana come in honey bear?"

Sherlock frowned and bent down to look through the letterbox, his eyes meeting the make-up caked green eyes of the killer. "Yes." The eyes squinted with joy and suddenly the door was thrown open and he was yanked inside, the sound of a lock behind him followed by a chorus of shouts from outside.

He turned to face the woman sucking in a breath when he noticed the antique shotgun aimed directly at his chest and held by a beautiful black haired woman, lips ruby red and dressed in a tight black dress and black leather boots. She was simpering and smiling at him, batting her eyelashes. "Oh Sherlock honey, did I really have to go this far to get your attention?"

Sherlock glared at her and she smirked back up at him not noticing the three swat members peering in through the windows. Sherlock took a step forwards so she was stood just by the door and she grinned reaching a hand up to touch his face.

"Where is John?"

"Oh he is sleeping."

"This is a bit of a break in your pattern isn't it? John never went to the brothel; he isn't your usual victim type at all."

She sniffed and cocked her hips to the side looking down and then she lowered the rifle hands shaking as she looked back up at him, her face morphing into a snarling rage filled beast. "You were ignoring me! I had to get your attention somehow! Was I not interesting enough for you, you selfish arrogant stuck up pri-"

The doors burst open and she was almost instantly tackled to the ground the gun kicked away by one of the swat team. Sherlock barely glanced her way before he was off running up the stairs, winding through the corridors until he smelt it, the scent of lavender.

Lavender?

He skidded around the corner and exploded through a set of double doors, entering a heavily scented bedroom. The walls were a pale pink colour, the floor pale wooden floorboards. He took a step forwards, there in the centre of the room was a enormous four poster bed, draped in thick purple curtains that hid the mattress from view. He sucked in a breath and walked quickly to the side pulling the thick fabric over to reveal John.

John was...just laying there, the only movement the shaky rise and fall of his chest. Sherlock ripped the curtains apart and panted as he stared down, he was naked bar a pair of boxer shorts, his skin grey, and eyes rolling back in his head, hands handcuffed to the headboard. The thundering steps of the swat team filled his ears and he ripped his coat off laying it over his friend, (John wouldn't want to be seen like this)

The next few minutes were a blur, dotted with flashes of images, Lestrade's shocked face as John was wheeled out on a stretcher, the paramedic's hands on John's bare chest, the doors closing behind him as he stared out of the ambulance at the killer, her wink that shook through his bones and made his stomach flip with anger.

He just blinked at the doctor as he explained that John had been injected with a fatal dose of some poison or other but they had an antidote and it would be touch and go for a while. If he regained consciousness, it was a positive sign.

He focused on that part, he didn't care what had caused it and what they were doing to make it better just that John would wake up again, would turn to him and complain that Sherlock was always getting him in trouble and why does he keep doing this to himself and you didn't pick up any milk again did you, don't leave body parts there, how did this bottle of chemical end up here?

He sighed and slumped into the uncomfortable plastic covered chair beside John's bed. How selfish of him to keep his eyes closed, to stay in this silly little coma of his. How selfish of him too leave Sherlock in this in between state, trapped amid panic and his usual logic.

He blinked his eyes open a few hours later, his sleep interrupted by Mycroft's polite cough. "What are  _you_ doing here?"

He had the audacity to look offended and banged his umbrella on the floor. "I'm here to check up on you."

"Check up on me? There is nothing wrong with me."

"Well that's not quite true is it? It's not every day that you make a friend let alone have to deal with them being...incapacitated."

His gaze fell on John's prone form and Sherlock flipped his legs over so he was sat up in the chair, body leant slightly towards him as though protecting him from his older brother. He glanced at his colleague and back at Mycroft. "He will be okay."

Mycroft squinted at him, the same way he used to look at him when they were kids. It was a look that spoke of his greater understanding of human behaviour and... _feelings_.

"I'm sure he will."

He was being nice and it was then that the detective realised he must look awful, that his brother must be able to read his desperation in his face. He looked away. "It was my fault." His voice was barely over a whisper and he heard his brother sigh shifting his weight from one hip to the other. John’s chest was rising and falling regularly and form his position Sherlock could see the veins in his neck pulsing only slightly.

"No, it wasn't."

He couldn't look at him anymore so he stared back up at the seemingly concerned man. " **I** made him angry at me and he left again. **I** ignored her and so she took him."

Mycroft was quiet for a moment and then he fixed his brother with a somewhat inquisitive stare. "How did you get in here? Visiting hours ended hours ago. I of course am above such things but you...you’re a member of the public."

Sherlock blushed only very slightly and looked just over his brothers' shoulder. "I told them we were married."

Mycroft raised one eyebrow and smirked. "I see. And they believed you...how interesting."

Sherlock just glared at him. There was a hoarse cough from his right and he turned his head sharply, Johns eye lids fluttered and slowly they cracked open, warm hazel eyes peered out at him and he frowned.

"Not your date."

Mycroft sniffed and Sherlock glanced back him, tearing his eyes from his colleagues face, his sibling was hiding a smirk rather badly. "If you will excuse me, can't leave the office for too long."

He fixed Sherlock with that look again and then he was gone in a swish of expensive fabric. So the detective looked back and blinked at John's face, that fantastic face and his eyes looking back at him. That white hot speck in the pit of his stomach disappeared the more he stared and so he drank it up.

After a minute of blatant staring he realised John was looking at him oddly and suddenly the world was back in focus, as was his colleagues face. The area around his eyes was tight; teeth gritted together hands clasping the sheets.

"John? Are you okay?"

"My head hurts, and I can't remember anything from the...what day is it?"

"Thursday."

"Oh."

Sherlock smiled and John blinked his eyelids drooping a little so Sherlock reached for his remote thing, pressing the button to call the nurse.

He sat back as they bustled around the doctor, asking him questions and injecting things into the IV. John answered politely smiling and thanking them, hands shaking slightly as he gestured around himself. The detective took the time to reassess his own physical state, his heart beat returned to normal, breathing less restricted now John was conscious, hands had regained their steady form and he relaxed back into the uncomfortable chair, a soft smile about his lips. He was here with John, and John was stuck with him, he couldn't leave again.

At least until he was discharged.

Eventually the nurses left and the battered mans tired gaze fell on him. "What happened?"

"What do you remember?"

"We had a fight... I was angry, really angry and I turned the corner and then I heard a scream...I think I heard a scream." He frowned, eyes focussed on the sheets as he tried to remember. "It was a woman screaming for help so I ran down this alley and I felt a sharp prick on my neck and I turned around and someone was laughing and then... I woke up on this bed. I was...oh god did the entire squad see me..."

Sherlock shook his head and the doctor's head slumped back to the pillow in relief. "She was keeping me drugged; it's all a bit hazy."

"Is that it?"

"No no... The drugs would start to wear off and it would get a bit clearer. I was..." Johns face dropped and he looked out at the window, dawn now breaking over London. Sherlock sniffed, he didn't know what to do so he did what he'd seen on the TV.

He put his hand over Johns.

It seemed to work the dishevelled man turned to him with a surprised gasp and then he smiled slightly biting his lip. "I was scared. I didn't want to...oh this is stupid."

"Go on."

"I didn't want to die with you angry at me."

The detective frowned blinking. He didn't know what to make of that...w hat did normal people do? Was that a good or a bad thing? So he decided being honest was probably the best method. "I wasn't angry, I was bored and thirsty."

"You mean you didn't even make yourself a drink?"

"My tea isn't as good as yours."

John chuckled and Sherlock joined him, hand still grasping his colleagues gently. Perhaps he was better at this 'human' thing than he had theorised.

The doctor yawned moving his hand from under Sherlock's and stretching, his shoulder popping audibly. "You should sleep."

He was positive that was the correct thing to say because John smiled again, nodding at him "Yeah. Are you going home?"

He ignored the warmth spreading from his stomach at the familiar way he said that, at the sad tone as if he almost didn't want the detective to leave, he also didn't call it 'the flat' anymore. Now it was  _home._

"Mmm I have a few experiments in the morgue so..."

"You really should get some sleep too."

"I did while you were in that coma."

John raised an eyebrow at him about to argue when his chiding was cut off by another massive yawn. "Fine. At least if you pass out you're in a hospital."

Sherlock laughed and stood hands in suit pockets awkward, watching his colleague wriggle down the bed eyes drooping shut. He was fascinating to watch and there was something about his face and his expressions and the way he spoke to Sherlock that made him feel... close to something. Like the ten inch thick walls he carried around with him were just tissue paper in the rain, dissolving into mush.

He waited until John was settled before inching out the door, passing the nurses on the way out. They looked at him smiling sympathetically and one put her hand on his arm. "He will be okay Mr. Watson. He just needs rest now."

Sherlock just nodded, he didn't understand why they were calling him Watson or why she needed to touch his arm. Perhaps they thought he was upset? Like John, when he had put his hand on the doctors he had made him smile. That was probably it.

Sherlock inched away from them and escaped for a few blissful hours to his lab, his peace interrupted by Lestrade being led in by Molly. She was looking at him oddly and Lestrade simply looked tired. "Sherlock, I can't seem to find John and I need to take his statement for the court case."

Sherlock placed the pipette on the counter and wiped his hands on a nearby lab coat. "Why didn't you just ask at the desk?"

"I was going to but Molly here told me she knew where you were and that you haven't eaten yet."

The detective frowned at the blushing woman. "Why does it matter if I have eaten?"

"Because I can't have you keeling over and since John isn't there to look after you the responsibility has fallen on my shoulders."

"Look after me? I don't need looking after."

Why was everyone so worried about him all of a sudden, making sure he had slept making sure was eating. Sherlock glanced at his reflection in a test tube that contained silver nitrate, glucose and ammonia giving the silver mirror effect. His warped image seemed normal enough and so he chalked it up to everyone else ability to read emotions more easily, perhaps they could just tell that he was...worried? Tired? That he wasn't his usual mostly logical self.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, hand sliding into his pocket to pull out a twenty pound note. "Look I have twenty quid, I'll buy you anything you want from the canteen and you can take me to John afterwards."

Sherlock squinted at him; the note was crisp clean and smooth. "Did my brother give you that note?"

The detective inspector blushed a little; Mycroft had contacted him almost as soon as Sherlock had started working with him and always asked for checkups on Sherlock's general well being. "Yes. He seems to think that you're so distraught that you won't eat."

The detective glared at Lestrade's all too pleased face, he felt tense and humiliated. "Well he is wrong." Reaching out a pale hand he snatched the note from the inspector and gestured for him to lead the way, eyes now boring into Molly.

This was her fault.

He reluctantly ordered a portion of greasy chips and a side of sausages in some sort of gravy based sauce and slipped into the booth opposite Lestrade who was tucking into his dinner straight away. Sherlock sniffed and picked at his meal, it was true he wasn't very hungry. All he could think about was Johns grey pallor, the strange heat of his skin when his fingers had brushed across his cheek as he laid his coat on him. It made his stomach turn and right now he just wanted to go outside and steal a fag off anyone within a foot of him.

"You said you weren't worried."

Sherlock didn't look up instead he took a big bite of one of the sausages chewing slowly, fixing Lestrade with a triumphant stare as he tried not to gag. He didn't seem impressed.

"She won't stop talking about you."

Sherlock swallowed his mouthful and raised an eyebrow "Hmmm."

"Maybe next time you will answer my texts when I ask you about a case. You've never been so reluctant before."

"What do you mean?"

"Well it's been over a week since the last case you had a look at. Normally you take one or two more than that. Been busy?"

"I had some cases of my own."

"So you  **weren't**  just sat in that flat all day every day."

He said that like he knew something Sherlock didn't and the detective glared at him. What exactly what he trying to say? "You're clearly trying to get at something."

Infuriatingly Lestrade just chuckled and slid from the booth, checking the time on his phone. "Are you done? I need to get back before two."

Sherlock glanced down at his barely touched plate, he had managed at least a third of the chips and a whole sausage. He was done. He had almost forgotten about his little white lie when he pressed the buzzer to be allowed onto the ward. The nurse greeted him at the door an eyebrow raised in Lestrade's direction.

"Mr Watson, John is just talking with the doctor. Is this a friend of yours? Visiting hours isn’t until three..."

"Oh no. I'm detective inspector Lestrade. I need to collect a statement from John Watson?"

The nurse smiled up at him and addressed Sherlock again. "He was asking for you."

Well that sent a tiny spark straight to his heart and he licked his lips hands in his pockets carefully avoiding eye contact with a now almost gleeful Lestrade. "Oh did he?"

"I told him, _my_ husband’s just the same always off in his shed, and sometimes I won't see him for hours on end. Get's so lost in his little projects."

Sherlock blushed, eyes on the floor. What exactly had John told her?

"Yes well, I expect they are vastly different form my own. "

With that he brushed past the nurse and made for Johns room.

 


	2. Incomplete Studies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns from the hospital and Sherlock begins to discover something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kudos! I hope you guys are enjoying this because there is a hell of a lot of it to come!

Lestrade was chuckling behind him as the detective strode ahead. He tried in vain to ignore the sly glances and giggles the DI was fixing him with. Not really befitting a man of his station but then not everyone can be a gentleman.

John's doctor looked about six years old and Sherlock pouted at him, how did this man know anything? He didn't look like he had even left his parents home yet. Lestrade bumped gently into the back of him and Sherlock realised that he had stopped in his tracks. He stepped smartly to the side to allow Lestrade in and then walked to John's side, eyes still on his doctor.

"Ah, Mr Watson. I was just giving John the good news, the poison that we treated is highly toxic but luckily it has an extremely short toxicity life, breaking down after around 24 hours."

"Yes I am aware of that."

The doctor looked at him, his easy smile dripping off his face at the detectives abrupt tone. John sighed and Sherlock turned to face him catching the glare he was receiving. "I mean... is that the good news?"

The doctor licked his lips smile back on his face like wallpaper and he grasped his clipboard with both hands, toothy grin, shining blue eyes and short blonde hair. He looked like a male model, a six year old male model. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Yes it is. He should be free to go after a night or two of observation."

That was good news, his life would be back to normal (well as normal as it ever got) in just another night. John clearly did not like being a patient and the detective was pretty sure he would insist on just one night's bed rest. His shoulders relaxed a little and the detective slumped back into the now familiar cheap plastic of the bedside chair a smile about his lips and John all but beamed at him and then Lestrade.

He didn't hide his own happiness, leaning away from John with a smug grin, making eye contact that surprisingly the doctor held, his smile slipping a little when the air suddenly began humming with tension. It was almost too much to bear before his colleagues gaze turned away and landed on the detective inspector. How very odd.

The doctor took this as his cue to leave and he raised a hand in goodbye before scooting out of the door. Lestrade managed to hold back for all of two seconds before his manic grin burst and he peered at Sherlock peevishly.

"Why did they call you Mr. Watson?"

John rolled his eyes smile dissipating and Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself looking away from the doctor. "Sherlock told the nurses he is my husband so he could stay."

There was a long silence and then Lestrade burst out laughing looking between the two men. He was laughing so hard in fact that he doubled over, hands on knees face pink. It was... _humiliating._

Sherlock made sure not to look at either of them instead flinging his legs over the arm of the chair and pulling his coat tighter around himself. Lestrade and John's conversation washed over him as he stared at the pale yellow wall in his direct eye line. He was angry, ashamed and was regretting the whole husband thing. He hadn't thought it through; it was a spur of the moment  _emotional_ thing. He huffed out a breath unwrapping and rewrapping his arms.

How bloody ridiculous.

John was clearly also a bit angry that he had told them that, and Lestrade clearly found some humour in the fact. He couldn't help feeling like he was missing something; it was unsettling to say the least. The idea that he Sherlock Holmes consulting detective was missing something that the frankly ordinary Lestrade had already noticed sent a shiver down his spine. Today really wasn't a good day.

After a while (he couldn't be sure how long, time seems to slow when you are gasping for a fag.) he heard his name being called and he turned is head to face John. "What?"

"Did you eat something?"

Sherlock glared at him. This was getting ridiculous. "This is getting ridiculous. I am fully capable of looking after myself. Why exactly does everyone around feel the need to act like I'm an invalid or small child!"

"I was only asking."

"Yes well... how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine thank you."

"Good."

It was awkward, tense and Sherlock sighed facing away again. "Sherlock, why did you tell them we are married?"

"I wanted to stay."

"Why?"

Sherlock frowned; he didn't know why it had been so important to him. There was clearly nothing he could've done for John just by being there. "I didn't want to go back to the flat."

"Yeah but why?"

"It's empty."

There was a long silence and finally Sherlock grew tired of the strained tension and he span his whole body, feet planting firmly on the floor, hands on his knees, eyes fixed on Johns expression. He seemed confused and there was something else he wasn't sure how to classify.

"Unfortunately sharing a flat with you has caused me to grow accustomed to having another person around. To be alone for an extended period of time is now...abrasive."

This was true of course but there was more, he had been  _worried_  about John.

John shut his mouth with a snap blinking and shaking his head as if he didn't believe what he was seeing. "Sherlock I..."

He was interrupted by the sound of heels on hard floors and Mrs. Hudson rounded the corner smiling and holding a slightly wilted bouquet of flowers. "John, dear."

John smiled at her. "Mrs Hudson."

"Oh how are you feeling dear? Sherlock's not irritating you is he?"

The detective sniffed and glared at her. He was offended at the implication that John did anything but revel in his presence. He had better disagree.

"No no, nothing I can't handle."

Good boy.

The old woman smiled and bustled around to the side of the bed peering closely at Johns face and smoothing his hair as if he was a small child. "Tsk, Sherlock can't you ask the nurses for a vase to put these in?"

The detective frowned, how dare she act as though he was a common slave. John glanced at him eyes wide flickering expressively from the softly smiling landlady and back, almost pleading in their intensity and he found himself on his feet and striding out of the door.

When he returned Mrs. Hudson directed him to place the vase on the side unit and empty the paper packet of plant food into it. She then placed the flowers in the vase and stood back with a sigh, hands clasped delicately in front of her.

"There we go. It makes it more cheery. Don't you think?"

John nodded and she titled her head smiling fondly at him, after a second she glanced to Sherlock her smile dropping, a finger coming out to point at him. "You, there is an awful smell coming from your kitchen. I dread to think what you have in there but I want it gone before John gets home. It's not good is it when you've been through an ordeal like that to come home to a mess."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose but he didn't argue, instead resolving to rope in a few favours he was owed to get the flat clean. So that night he slept for a few hours on the sofa, showering before the clean up began. The rag tag crew were watched carefully, ensuring nothing was actually stolen as they scrubbed and polished and hoovered the flat.

It smelt disturbingly fresh so the detective waited for the men to leave before rushing back to the hospital to find some more chemicals or body parts or anything to make it seem more like home again.

He was disappointed to find that not even flirting with Molly could get him any parts until the next week and that due to a spillage he would not be allowed in the labs either. He glared at the apologetic woman arms crossed in defiance. "You can't even slip me one single measly head?"

She sighed, hands on hips, oddly confident and dominant "No. Not one."

Sherlock titled his head, something was different about her. The detective sighed complete with a overdramatic head toss and glanced away from her, making eye contact with the NA from Johns' ward.

She smiled and waved at him jogging a little to reach the two people, genuine warmth in her eyes. "Mr Watson! I was told you might be down here. John is free to go once he finishes his paperwork, I don't know if you have a car or something..."

Her gaze fell on Molly whose eyes had taken on a strangely murderous light and she looked back at Sherlock licking her lips nervously. "I will be along in a moment."

She nodded and turned away glancing back over her shoulder at the clearly fuming brown haired woman. Sherlock looked down at her, ah that must be it. He had known about her 'crush' (as he had been informed it was the correct term) for a while, it was plainly obvious to see and he had found it useful on occasion.

However he did hold some modicum of respect for her, she was not as utterly dim as most people and so he had when feeling tired, particularly inspired or simply thankful, taken to complimenting her on her hairstyle or lipstick or new nail polish.

Simple words which seemed to bring her pleasure.

But now she was experiencing a very different emotion, jealousy. "Why did she call you Mr. Watson?"

Sherlock bared his teeth sucking a breath the air whistling in a sharp intake."The nurses seem to have gotten it into their heads that John and I are married." He finished it off with a slight almost causal shrug of the shoulders'.

Molly's own shoulders drooped in comparison, her anger dissipating. It appeared she had gone through every stage of grief in one, now settling on resolution. "How did that happen?"

"I don't know."

She smiled sadly at him and he looked away, down the hallway to the staircase that would lead him back to John. "Well you'd better go."

Sherlock looked back at her, it was awkward now and he blinked trying to work out the correct words. "You changed your hair." His brain stuttered  _that_  probably wasn't it.

She blushed, a hand falling on the slick ponytail, fingers sliding through her hair. "Oh yeah..."

"It looks nice."

She smiled at him, face pink eyes alight. Ah normalcy. He had yet again unwittingly managed the correct social move. What an odd pattern.

With a curt nod he was off, long lean legs and steady footsteps that echoed around empty laminate floors, the sharp sting of heavy duty disinfectants welcome and familiar in Sherlock's nose. He smiled as he rounded the corner, buzzing into the ward and almost running to John's room. He strived now for the almost normal movements of his life.

John was sat on the bed wearing his (Sherlock's) favourite red sweater and a pair of blue jeans, feet not reaching the floor like a pre-pubescent boy on a paediatricians table. He was clearly waiting for the detective because he greeted him as such; sliding off the bed and picking up his black duffel bag (Mrs. Hudson had brought him a change of clothes no doubt).

He grinned and in silence they exited the ward, John waving goodbye to the nurses Sherlock merely acknowledging them with the twitch of his lips. The silence remained as they manoeuvred the hospitals winding hallways and staircases stepping outside to a bitterly cold wind and slight drizzle.

Sherlock hailed a cab and opened the door for John letting his companion slip in, in front of him, a grateful smile his appreciated reward. "102 baker street please."

The cabbie bobbed his head and John stared at the detective. "John, you have clearly not been eating very well and although not directly I am responsible for your hospitalisation. Therefore we are going to the gourmet burger kitchen."

The doctor was either too tired or too shocked the reply simply closing his mouth and staring out of his window. Sherlock took this chance to observe him properly, his skin was slightly paler than normal but nowhere near that sickly gray, the memory of which sent the hot spike back down his spine.

His eyes were darkened by large bags, his lips appearing redder due to his pale complexion and he looks tired, so very tired. Sherlock thought for a moment perhaps pushing John to eat would be a bad idea however he knew that the doctor would not enjoy the hospital ready meal food trays and must be starving for something more to his tastes.

They rolled up outside and Sherlock reached over John to open the door for him, pausing just as his chest brushed against his colleagues.

What the hell was he doing?

John seemed to think the same thing, but didn't say anything instead raising one eyebrow in confusion. Luckily Sherlock is almost incapable of embarrassment and so he stared back gesturing with his hand that John should exit the vehicle.

The inside of the restaurant was decidedly modern, the pair seated in a booth on one wall. The fabric was suede and vibrant red, seats well padded. Sherlock bounced up and down experimentally and smiled to himself. A good bounce variable.

Ordering there food Sherlock chose the house special for both of them, winking at John. "Trust me. It is delicious."

John chuckled and he looked up catching his colleagues eye and was about to speak when he was interrupted by a very tan hand thrust in front of his face.

"Sherlock? Hi!"

He knew that voice, that  _voice..._ he hadn't heard it in years and years. Slowly turning his head his eyes landed on Jerry...Jeremy Gallows, a tall thin man not quite with the same grace as the detective but still striking in his movements, straight blonde hair that swooped down over one eye, dark brown eyes and a blinding Hollywood smile. Well tailored suit that spoke of old money as did the club tie he wore and the slightly nasal tone of his voice.

Jeremy his first and only furore into...and he was already interrupting, inching his hand closer to Sherlock's on the table, glancing from him to John and back, smile a little strained. Sherlock had forgotten to reply.

"Hello Jeremy."

"Oh please, you never called me Jeremy. Well not  _all_  the time."

He smirked squinting down at the detective and John almost choked on his water having chosen that exact moment to take a sip. Jeremy's smug voice rang out and he leant down a little staring at John.

"Who is your friend?"

"John this is Jeremy, Jeremy doctor John Watson. My colleague."

"Colleague eh? Doesn't he just drive you mad?"

John just blinked at him, unsure smile on his lips. "I'm sorry I don't...Sherlock never mentioned you."

All eyes back on him and for once Sherlock shied away from the limelight. He didn't want to talk about that summer and definitely didn't want Jeremy to talk about it. "Oh we go way back. His parents brought his family to summer at a cottage near my family's home."

"Oh that sounds...fun."

"It was dull."

Sherlock finally spoke up and Jeremy smiled at him all sharp pointed teeth and barely concealed anger. Well hidden to the untrained eye. "Well we had some fun didn't we brains."

He used the nickname, a word that had of a brief period of time made him feel special, wanted. Sherlock just smiled up at him. "Yes but that was a long time ago."

Jeremy didn't even try to hide the anger that statement caused and he bent low smiling sweetly at Sherlock and then John. "Well things like that are never really over, are they." He winked at the doctor and Sherlock snarled under his breath.

He stood back up and then with an almost jovial wave he was gone weaving between tales with the air of someone important (or at least thought they were).

The pair were silent until the meal arrived, John murmuring "That looks lovely." under his breath.

Sherlock glanced up, "What?" John stared at him for a second seeming to mull over his words before putting his knife and fork down.

"So, he was a friend of yours."

"I told you I don't have friends...didn't have friends." That earned him a slight smile and John looked across the room and back.

"What was that about anyway...you also said you don't have boyfriends?"

Sherlock's lips twitched and he considered what was he expected to do here. Did he tell John the unfortunate fable of Jeremy or did he lie or fob him off. John's knee bumped his under the table and he sniffed poking at his burger.

"He was not my boyfriend. He was an acquaintance with whom I happened to share a brief period of physical intimacy." John's mouth dropped open and Sherlock looked down. He was embarrassed again, bloody John asking him bloody questions.

"Oh."

"I don't understand why you are shocked... he made it obvious that we had engaged in some sort of sexual activity."

"I just didn't expect you to admit it."

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

They were silent again and Sherlock gazed at John trying to decipher the glint in his eyes, the tense pull of his shoulders, the way the dim lights softly illuminated his face. It was not an unattractive sight even though he was obviously curious and confused.

"Was he your first...first..."

"Yes. "

"Oh."

Sherlock sighed taking a sip of his drink. It would seem that John was very interested in his previous experiences (he didn't think they counted as relationships.) something that sent a thrill down the detectives spine.

"He was kind to me." Sherlock kept his voice calm, quiet. He wasn't sure what tone exactly to use.

John nodded smiling at him, eyes a little wary. He in fact leant a little closer, close enough now for his aftershave to waft across the table, his warm brown eyes thrown into contrast with his pale skin. If asked to put a name to the warm sensation he felt Sherlock would say it was...comforting.

"He would ask me to deduce things about the other children in the park or in the village to see how much I could work out. It was child's play, the unaware are almost too easy to read. He was impressed and one day he kissed me. Naturally I wasn't sure how to react."

John hummed sympathetically. "He informed me that he found me attractive and it went from there."

"So... you  _are_  gay then."

Sherlock frowned. "I suppose I am."

John swallowed his food choking and gulping down water. His face was bright red and Sherlock just stared impassively, waiting for his reply. "Oh right. That all fine then..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Is it?"

John shook his head. "What do you mean you  _suppose_? Should you know by now?"

"I told you. I consider myself married to my work. It's never been an issue."

John laughed in disbelief. Or at least that what he assumed the laugh meant. "So if he was nice to you and you have no...remaining feelings for him then why did you look like you wanted to rip his head off when he came over?"

Sherlock sighed. Nobody knew about Jeremy, not even Mycroft did he really want to tell John about how he had managed to mess up the only good thing in his childhood? He was silent for a while and eventually John just looked away, finishing his meal.

"Look, it doesn't matter. Sorry I asked."

Sherlock didn't reply he just blinked at his colleague, damn his lack of social skills damn it. There was a reason that any and all physical encounters with people were strictly one time affairs, there to satisfy his body's needs when and if he felt them.

Which he rarely did.

It was better that way, no messy emotional stuff for his brain to get muddled and jammed up with. But then...was this an emotional thing? With  _John_? He wasn't sure whether the strange warm wobbly feeling in his stomach was friendship or something more serious than that.

"Not at all. Are you finished? I left my nicotine patches at the flat."

John smiled at him evidently pleased he hadn't somehow upset the detective and as they walked to the curb Sherlock hailing a cab with ease John seemed to stand just an inch closer than normal. Perhaps it was an accident, perhaps not but it was certainly noticed. For a man with Sherlock's perceptions it was as thought he had gone from walking beside him to rubbing up against his arms.

They were quiet on the ride home, quiet on the way into the flat and Sherlock let John go ahead of him grinning when he heard the impressed gasp as he viewed the newly cleaned flat. He walked up behind him in the doorway leaning down slightly to speak quietly into his ear, the heat from the back of John's neck sending a hot spike of something up and down his spine.

"The homeless are surprisingly good at cleaning." John murmured his agreement and crossed the threshold placing his bag by the door and slapping his hands together on his way to make a cup of tea. Sherlock watched him go, noting the slight flush to his cheeks and the way he avoided looking at the taller man.

Sighing Sherlock walked to his chair and slumped in it almost hanging off the edge as he reached out for the remotes and flicked through the channels. He didn't want John in the other room he wanted him right here, his undivided attention just like in the restaurant. But then that's all he ever wanted from people.

He smiled when the doctor returned handing over his drink a soft smile on his face, eyes alight with warmth, Sherlock's favourite sweater making him look almost offensively harmless and comfortable (Oh how wrong that particular illusion was).

Sherlock reached out, fingers dragging over the soft woollen cuff and over the back of Johns' hand as he took the mug, smirking when he noticed John rubbing that area as he sat down.

They watched TV in silence apart from Sherlock's outraged outbursts, screaming and yelling when things got too dumb for him not to object. His mind wasn't really on the shows; it was focussed on that image of John. For the first time in his life he began to almost fantasise, muddled images of what it would be like to hug the smaller man in that jumper.

It would be warm, soft most likely and John would be closer to him than he ever had been before. It would certainly be interesting. For just a second he wondered if it would be like that one singular hug he had received from Jeremy, brief and cold, thin arms and fingers digging into his sides.

But then...how to instigate such an act? Does he simply ask for it? Or take what he suddenly desperately wants as though John was in fact an enormous nicotine hit and Sherlock was gasping. He glanced down at the doctor, he frowned. Well there was only one way to find out.

"John."

The doctor turned around raising an eyebrow "Mmm."

"How do I go about hugging somebody?"

John blinked shaking his head and shuffling in his seat so he was staring right at the detective. He squirmed internally, he hated that he needed to ask advice about these things when other (much more stupid) people just seemed to  _know_.

"Well I suppose you just sort of...ask?"

"Right. John can I hug you?"

He doctor spluttered, a blush rising from his cheeks and spreading down past his neckline. He smiled, the frowned then smiled and Sherlock held back a frustrated groan through gritted teeth.

"Uh...okay then."

Okay then.

So...now what? He had hugged people before...well people had mostly hugged  _him_. People who didn't know him very well, who assumed he knew what to do in that situation. When Mrs. Hudson had hugged him the first day John had come to the flat and it was...nice and comforting. But then, she was almost like the mother figure he never had. His own parents had been distant, regal and she was what as a child he assumed other parents would be like, all soft and caring.

He had only hugged someone he liked once and that was Jeremy and it was...weird and awkward. He didn't want it to be like that with John. He was broken from his cloud of worry by John's irritated voice.

"Are you going to hug me or what?" Sherlock looked up to find John standing above him arms outstretched a little. "Just considering all the variables."

"It's a hug not rocket science."

"For you at least."

John chuckled and Sherlock felt a bit better at it, getting to his feet in one swift elegant move. The TV chattered in the background and he could hear the soft patter of raindrops against the glass behind him, Johns steady breathing that wafted tea stained breath up in his face. He wrinkled his nose and smiled down at his colleague.

The doctor rolled his eyes and stepped forwards placing his arms gently around Sherlock's slim waist, and the detective hesitated before letting his own wrap about the strong shoulders below him. They weren't standing very closely, John leaning towards him slightly, his legs still planted further away.

That wasn't right, it wasn't enough and so he took a step forwards, putting their bodies flush together, arms tightening around his shoulders, John's hands digging in slightly, and arms tighter. It was certainly different to Jeremy's hug, even warmer than he had expected and he could feel from the sudden intake of breath that it wasn't what John expected either.

Sherlock smiled and bent his head slightly bringing his ear to press against the doctors. John sighed and he could feel the smile against his neck, the slightly citrus scent filling his nostrils and he tugged John up slightly so he could bury his nose in the soft wool jumper, closing his eyes. He felt warm and that squirmy liquid feeling pooled at the base of his spine.

The shorter man chuckled and it vibrated up through him sending warm chills up and down his spine. Sherlock abruptly let go, stepping away and crossing his arms a smile on his lips, he didn't want to scare the doctor away with his (rather impressive if he said so himself) continued reaction. John raised an amused eyebrow at him.

"Well, what experiment was that for?"

The detective licked his lips, frowning, ah yes the explanation. Shame he didn't have one really.

"An incomplete one."


End file.
